William W. Johnstone - Ashes 1 - Out Of The Ashes

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To Danielle Dubois

This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary

of the existing government, they can exercise their Constitutional right of amending it, or their

revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.

—Abe Lincoln PROLOGUE

Louisiana, 1984

“Are you nuts?” Ben Raines asked, fighting back an urge to laugh in the man's face. “I mean, honest to

God, fellow, have you got both oars in the water?”

The sarcastic slur and intellectual insult was lost on the visitor. “I assure you, Mr. Raines, I am in full

command of all my faculties. You came highly recommended to me. To us.”

“By whom?”

“I cannot divulge that information. Not just yet. I am sorry.”

“How do you know I won't go straight to the FBI with this ... scheme of yours?”

The man pointed. “There is the phone. Call them. You can't prove a thing. But we can—about you.” He

smiled.

“The FBI knows damned well I was a mercenary back in ‘69 and ‘70. So does the State Department. I

made that very clear in several of my novels. Blackmail won't work with me.”

The man shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

“Look,” Ben said, “I don't like the way this country is going any more than you do—believe that, or not.

But violent overthrow—even if you people had the men and equipment, which you don't—is not my

forte.”

“But we do have the men and equipment, Mr. Raines.”

“You say. I don't want any part of it.”

“You're certain?”

“As certain as the sun comes up in the east.”

“Then we badly misjudged you, Mr. Raines.”

Ben shook his head in disagreement. “No, you didn't. If you had approached me just a few years ago,

back in ‘80, or even ‘82, I probably would have gone along with you. But now ... no.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Because for the past few years I've been very comfortable. And getting fatter all the time. My books are

selling well; no bill collectors calling every night; everything you see around you—including the house—is

paid for. I have no reason to rock the boat.”

“If you are so happy, why do you drink yourself into a stupor every evening?”

Ben smiled. “You have been investigating, haven't you? I didn't mention happy, did I? Comfortable was

the word I chose.”

“Has it not occurred to you that we may be privy to ... matters concerning the situation in the world that

... you are not aware of, sir? I beg you to reconsider your stance.”

Ben shook his head no.

The man sighed. “Well ... you will not be contacted by us again, Mr. Raines. Thank you for your time.”

He hesitated, then said, “I ... may be making a mistake, Mr. Raines, but everybody is entitled to one. So

here is mine: Bull Dean and Carl Adams are still alive. They're running the show.”

Ben came out of his chair. He stared at the man. “I don't believe it. Hey! I saw the bodies, buddy.”

The man's expression did not change. “If you reverse your position, Mr. Raines, just run an ad in the

local paper that you'd like to buy a Russian wolfhound. You'll be contacted.” He turned and was gone

into the night, the door closing softly behind him.

Ben sat down. He looked at the half-full glass of bourbon and water on the table. He picked it up and

emptied it without taking the glass from his lips.

Bull and Adams alive? No way.

Ben Raines laughed and put the mysterious visit out of his mind. He put on a symphony and got drunk

while listening to it. The next morning, the visit was hazy in his mind. After a week, he had forgotten all

about it.

PART ONE

ONE

Washington, D.C., 1988

“Maybe historians will treat me in a more humane fashion than the press has for the past eight years,”

President Fayers remarked to his wife. “But sometimes I wonder.”

“You've done a lot of good things over the years, Ed.” She smiled at him, patting his hand. “SALT 5 was

only one of them. It's taken you time, and you didn't win all the battles, but you certainly didn't lose the

war.”

“Then why, for the past several months, have I had this ... uneasy feeling in my guts that ... oh, hell,

honey—I don't know. I've been a politician all my life. And I know something is going on. I can't put my

finger on it, but ... some thing is crawling around the gutters of this city. Some ... secret I should know.”

His wife studied him. She knew only too well the sixth sense career politicians develop over the years,

and knew it was not to be taken lightly. Her husband had had his finger on the pulse of the world for

more than forty years, for the past eight as president of the United States. If he believed something was

amiss ... it was.

“Ed, this unknown ... quantum bothers you that much?”

“Yes, it does, honey. Ever since that gun-control bill went through, the unrest in this country has been

building. Baby, citizens of this country—not criminals—have been beaten, jailed, and killed, simply

because they clung to the belief—a correct belief, I might add—that they had a right to own a gun. Damn

that Hilton Logan for the son of a bitch he is! He and that pack of liberal bastards really stirred it up with

that gun-control bill.”

“You didn't sign it, Ed. Don't forget that.”

“It still became law.”

“The law of the land, Ed,” she reminded him.

“But,” the president stared hard at his wife of fifty years—more than his wife: his friend, his confidante.

“Is it really the law of the land? Of the people, for the people? Is it constitutional?”

“The supreme court says it is.”

“Five to four,” President Fayers grunted. “Not exactly an overwhelming majority.” He walked to the

window and looked out at the night. “I cannot forget the news film of that fellow down in South Carolina.

That man never had so much as a traffic ticket in his whole life. And agents—federal agents—employed

by the very government his taxes help support, shot him stone damned dead! And for what? Because he

wanted to keep a .38 pistol in his house. Ah, hell!” The president waved his disgust.

“The country is becoming prosperous once again,” she said, attempting to change the subject.

“What's the matter?” He grinned at her. “You worried about my blood pressure?”

“Somebody has to. You won't.”

“After all the social blunders of the ‘60s and ‘70s ... I'll be goddamned if we're not heading down the

same old road. Just look at that new pack of liberals in Congress.”

“It's the will of the people, Ed.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, honey, that's the shame of it—it isn't. It's the will of pressure groups,

lobbyists, so-called Christians.” He poured a drink under the frowning gaze of his wife. He downed it

neat, then sighed. “Something's in the wind. And it stinks. I just don't know what it is.” He sat down.

“God, I'm tired. I'm seventy-five years old. I'm tired. I just want out.”

Ben Raines sat on the front porch of his home in Louisiana and for the first time in a long time thought

about Vietnam and how, during the quiet moments after patrol, unwinding, but still too keyed up to sleep,

he would sit with his buddies and talk of home, women, movies, and politics—as well as other topics.

Two decades had passed since that exercise in futility had ended for Ben. He didn't think about it often.

The nightmares had dimmed into occasional dreams, without substance, the blood in them no longer red

and thick and real. The screaming faint night sounds now had no meaning, and the smoke from the

burning villages was no longer acrid, did not burn his eyes or leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

It was just a fading memory. Nothing more.

He wondered, now that SALT 5 was two years old and the nuclear weapons around the world had been

greatly reduced, at least for the major countries, if there would ever be another war.

He felt there would be, and he also wondered if Russia and America were living up to the terms of the

agreement.

He doubted it. Both sides still had missiles tucked away, hidden, ready, and aimed. Each side knew the

other too well. Only the doves in America truly believed in all the terms of SALT 5. Ben wondered if

those missiles aimed at Russia and America were nuclear or bacteriological types. He thought probably

the latter, for SALT didn't cover germ-type warheads ... that came under a different agreement.

“Come on, Ben,” he muttered. “Why are you thinking like this tonight?”

He tried to think about the new novel he was planning, but his thoughts would not jell. Then he suddenly

recalled the words one of his long-dead buddies had spoken to him, so many years before, during one of

those long bull sessions.

“How would you change our system of government, Ben? I mean, we all agree the system isn't working.

But how would you correct it? If you could?”

And that had sparked hours of debate and sometimes heated arguments that turned into fist fights. The

debates had lasted for days.

He recalled the legendary Col. Bull Dean listening to his men argue and debate. The Bull had smiled.

Then, when they were alone, Bull had said to Ben, “Keep your dreams, son. You have good thoughts for

one so young. Keep them alive in your mind, for someday, probably sooner than you might think, you

just might have a chance to see them spring to life. Hell, son! You might write a book!”

Ben had grinned, thinking the Bull was kidding.

On this soft night in Louisiana, Ben remembered Bull's words as they had waited to lift off from Rocket

City, heading into North Vietnam, to HALO in: high altitude, low opening. They would jump at twenty

thousand feet, their chutes opening automatically when they got under radar.

“We're losin’ this war, son,” Bull had said. “And there is nothing that guys like you and me can do about

it—we can only prolong it. Back home, now, it's gonna get worse—much worse. Patriotism is gonna

take a nose dive, sinking to new depths of dishonor. There is no discipline in schools; the courts have

seen to that. America is going to take a pasting for a decade, maybe longer, losing ground, losing face,

losing faith. That's when the military will be forced to step in and take over. And God help us all when

they do that.”

“Why do you say that, sir?”

“Remember that line about absolute power?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The military leaders—those with enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, that is, and we do have a few

of them in uniform—realize the truth in that line. They won't want to take over the country—but they

might be forced into doing it. For a time. It will be a bad time for you all.”

“For you all? Not including yourself in that, Colonel?”

The Bull had smiled.

“Sir? Why are you telling me all this ... now?”

The Bull shook his head. “I haven't told you as much as you might believe. But in the years ahead of

you—two decades, more than likely—you'll understand.”

Ben stirred uncomfortably on the porch. It had been two decades, almost. The strange visitor of several

years back suddenly popped into his mind. He shook away those memories.

And just before that leap into the rushing night, so many years ago, as the Bull stood in the door of the

plane, he screamed at Ben: “Bold Strike, son. Remember it. Bold Strike. Say it to no one.”

A few weeks later, Col. William “Bull” Dean was supposedly killed, his mutilated and unrecognizable

body found days later by a team of LRRPs—Long Range Recon Patrols. Then Adams was reported

missing. He was MIA'ed; then, finally, listed as KIA.

A month later, Ben had been wounded and sent home.

After he recovered from his wounds, he found he could not tolerate the attitudes in America toward her

Vietnam vets. He was restless, and missed the action he had left behind. He had been sent home to a

land of hairy, profane young men who sewed the American flag on the seats of their dirty jeans and

marched up and down the street, shouting ugly words, all in the name of freedom—their concept of

freedom.

Ben left the country and made his way to Africa, signing on as a mercenary with anyone who wanted and

appreciated fighting men. For two years he fought in dozens of little no-name wars, just drifting,

becoming hardened to death and blood and suffering.

One day he told a visiting American writer—whom he had met in a bar—he thought he might write a

book. The writer questioned Ben closely, then told him to do just that, and when he was through with it,

to send it to his agent. He'd tell the agent it was coming.

The more Ben thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He went home, back to Illinois, to his parents’

home, and wrote his book.

He'd been writing ever since and had lived in Louisiana for almost fifteen years.

He stirred from his misty memories and realized the phone was ringing in the den. He walked from the

coolness of the front porch and picked up the phone. Two words were spoken, and they caused his

heart to pound and a dizziness to spring into his head.

“Bold Strike.”

Then the line went dead.

Ben sat down hard in a chair. He had not heard those words in years. But what the hell did they mean? A

warning? A cue for him to do something. What in the shit had the Bull meant by them?

Ben turned on the TV set and caught the last of the nightly news. Fresh outbreaks of race riots in

Newark and Detroit. The government was worried about the resurgence of the KKK and the American

Nazi Party—and the fact that they had joined hands, to jointly spew their hate. White robes and black

uniforms.

“Bold Strike,” Ben muttered. “What's going on? Bull Dean is dead. And so is Carl Adams. I saw the

bodies.”

No, he corrected his thoughts. You saw a body. Someone said it was Colonel Dean. You later—much

later—saw pictures that someone said was Adams.

Then the words of the news commentator numbed Ben. “Certain military units have been placed on low

alert. No reason was given. But it's nothing to be concerned about, the Pentagon says. Just testing

security.”

“What units, you son of a bitch!” Ben shouted at the TV set.

A commercial for a female hygiene spray greeted his question.

Ben turned off the set.

Something dark and elusive darted around the shadowy corners of his mind. He fixed another drink and

sat down by the phone. He jerked up the phone, consulted an address book, and dialed the number of a

friend over at Fort Stewart, Georgia. His wife answered the phone.

“No, Ben, he's not here. No. I can't tell you where he is, ‘cause I don't know where he is. It hasn't been

this tight around here since the Iran thing.”

They chatted of small things for a few moments, then Ben said good night. The wall of secrecy was

closing. Ben knew it well.

He tried his old outfit, the Hell-Hounds. Probably less than five percent of Congress knew of their

existence. Maybe not that high a percentage. Certainly no member of the press knew of them. In times of

trouble, they would be gearing up in Utah, at an old AEC base. The Hell-Hounds had no permanent

base, being constantly on the move. The nearest thing they had to a home was that desolate, deserted

spot in Utah.

Col. Sam Cooper, CO of the Hell-Hounds, was blunt with him. Blunt, but not unfriendly. He simply had

his orders, and that was that.

“I don't know what's going down, Ben. But it's good to hear from you. I enjoyed your last book. Good

stuff.”

“Honestly, Sam? You really don't know what's happening?”

“I'm leveling with you, Ben. To tell you the God's truth, I can't find anybody who knows what's going on.

Or at least who will talk about it.”

Ben felt a chill move around in his belly. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

“Will do. You hunt a hole, partner,” the Hell-Hound said. “Keep your head down.” He broke the

connection.

Or somebody did it for him.

“It's firm, Hilton,” the senator's chief aide told him. “The military is up to something. Lots of moving

around and quiet talk. And I can't even get in the front door at Langley. Certain units of the military are

on some kind of low alert.”

“Why?” the senator demanded.

“I don't know.”

“President Fayers?”

“He's fat, dumb, and happy.”

“You mean he doesn't know what's going on?”

“Apparently not.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Two

A fishing lodge in the Missouri Ozarks

The banquet hall of the lodge had been cleared of all furniture not essential to the meeting. The building

had been electronically swept for listening devices. Long tables had been placed end to end, side to side,

forming a huge square, capable of accommodating fifty people in comfort. Pitchers of water, drinking

glasses, pads and pencils, and briefing books were placed on the dark blue cloth, the items neatly

arranged before each chair. A shredding machine stood silent in the corner.

Tension, heavy and ominous, hung in the huge room as the room filled with men in groups of two or

three. Although no nametag designated individual place, there was no confusion; each man seemed to

know exactly where to sit. There was no unnecessary chatter, few social amenities were exchanged. The

men looked at each other, nodded, then sat down.

All of the men were military. That would have been evident to even the most uneducated in military

bearing. Neatly trimmed hair, out of style; eyes that gave away nothing; erect bearing; no wasted motion.

To the more knowledgeable, the men were line officers and combat-experienced sergeants and chiefs.

All career men.

The Army general and colonels, had they been in uniform, would have had Airborne/Ranger/Special

Forces tabs on their shoulders. The generals and colonels of the Marine Corps are Force

Recon—trained—Raiders. The general and colonels of the Air Force are combat pilots and Air Force

commandos. The Navy men are UDT, SEAL, pilots, ships’ captains. The Coast Guard men are all

career; they have all seen combat. There were fifteen sergeant majors and master chiefs making up the

complement.

During the past twenty-four hours, the men, all having arrived at night, had traveled various routes to get

to the lodge. The real-estate agent who had rented them the lodge knew only that he was renting the

place for a top-level think tank.

Keep your mouth shut about this and we'll be back next year. A handsome bonus for you. And don't

disturb us.

Yes, sir, the agent had replied instinctively. Guy looked like his old drill sergeant.

Guards were sentried about the two hundred acres. They were in civilian clothes and their sidearms were

out of sight.

Cigars, pipes, and cigarettes smoking, water glasses filled, the men waited for someone to open the ball.

“Who ordered this low alert the press is talking about?” the question was tossed out.

“Came out of the Joint Chiefs. It's confused the hell out of a lot of units and caused several hundred

thousand men to be shifted around, out of standard position. Goddamn, it's going to be days before they

get back to normal. We not only don't know who issued the order, but why?”

“Maybe to get us out of position for the big push?”

“I thought we had more time—months, even.”

“Something's happened to cause them to speed up their timetable,” Gen. Vern Saunders of the Army

said. “That means we've got to move very quickly.”

“Hell, Vern,” Gen. Tom Driskill of the Marine Corps said, “what can we do ... really? We're up against

it. We all think we know where ‘it’ is. But we're not certain. Do we dare move? If we do, what will be

the consequences?”

Admiral Mullens of the Navy looked around him, meeting all eyes. “I don't think we dare move.”

Sergeant Major of the Army Parley stirred.

“You got something on your mind, Sergeant Major,” the admiral said, “say it. We're all equal here.”

“Damned if that's so!” a Marine sergeant major said.

Laughter erupted.

Parley said, “I don't believe we can afford to move. But if we don't, what do we do—just sit on our

hands and wait for war?”

“I think it's out of our hands,” Admiral Newcomb of the Coast Guard said. “We're damned if we do,

damned if we don't. If we expose the location of the sub—where we think it is—we stand a good

chance of a war. A very good chance. I think we're in a box. If we expose the traitors, they'll fire

anyway. And we're not supposed to have that type of missile.”

“Which is a bad joke,” Sergeant Major Rogers of the Marine Corps said in disgust. “Russia's still got us

outgunned two to one in missiles of the conventional nuclear type. God only knows how many germ-type

warheads they have.” He forced a grin. “Of course, we have a few of those ourselves.” He shook his

head. “Jesus! Thirty damned guys control the fate of the entire world. Even worse than that, if our

intelligence is correct, it's a double double cross.”

Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy Franklin looked across the table, disgust in his eyes. “Admiral?

Do you—any of you—know for sure just who we can trust?”

The admiral shook his head. “No, not really. We don't know how many of our own people are in on this

... caper.”

“You mean, sir,” a colonel asked, “one of us might be in on it?”

“I would say the odds are better than even that is true.”

“I wondered why I was jerked out of Italy so fast I didn't even have time to zip up my pants,” the Ranger

colonel smiled.

“Well, you'd better zip ’em up, Pete,” a SEAL laughed at him. “You don't have that much to brag

about.”

“How the hell do you know?” A marine chuckled. “You two guys queer for each other?”

“I ain't free,"—the Ranger grinned—"but I'm reasonable.”

An AF commando laughed. “He bends over in the shower a lot, lookin’ for the soap.”

The rough humor touched all the men. After the laughter had died, the men seemed more relaxed, able to

talk without constraint. A Special Forces colonel said, “General? You think some of my men are involved

in this?”

“No,” General Saunders said. “Our intelligence people"—he waved his hand—"all services, seem to

agree on one point: no special troops are involved. But"—he held up a warning finger—"this touches all

branches of the service, not just in this country, but all countries. Russia included.” He smiled grimly. “I

take some satisfaction in that. Those men in that sub have friends all over the world. That's why they've

been able to hide from us for so long.”

“The Bull and Adams are really alive?”

“Yes. I talked with Bull. It came as quite a shock to me.”

“I ... don't really understand what they have to do with this ... operation,” a master chief said, as much to

himself as to the men around him.

“Really ... neither do we,” an admiral replied. “But we do know these facts, one of which is obvious: Bull

and Adams faked their deaths years ago; we know they are both superpatriots, Adams more than Bull

when it comes to liberal-hating. All right. We put together this hypothesis: Adams and Bull had a plan to

overthrow the government—if it came to that—using civilian ... well, rebels, let's call them, along with

selected units of the military. Took years to put all this together. But ... the use of civilian rebels failed;

couldn't get enough of them in time. We know for a fact that many ex-members of the Hell-Hounds

turned them down cold.”

“How many men do they have?”

“Five to six thousand—at the most.”

“That's still a lot of people. And knowing Bull and Adams, those men are trained guerrilla fighters. How

have they managed to keep that many people secret for so long?”

The admiral allowed himself a tight smile. “You didn't know the Bull, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“If you had known either of them, you wouldn't have asked.”

“I knew both of them,” a Ranger colonel said. “If they even suspected a member of any of their units was

a traitor, they would not hesitate to kill him—war or peace.”

“I see,” the man said softly. “So ... Bull came up with the sub plan?”

General Saunders shook his head. “No. It wasn't his plan. We believe it was Adams’ idea. But I couldn't

discuss this with Bull. I only had two minutes with him. Besides, he and Adams have been friends for

twenty-five years. But I did manage to plant a seed of doubt in his mind. Yes, we believe Adams has lost

control; he's slipped mentally. Mr. Kelly of the CIA shares that belief.”

“There is something I don't understand,” a Coast Guard officer said. “Obviously, this plan has been on

the burner for a long time—years. To overthrow the government, I mean. Why have they waited so

long?”

“That's what we don't know. And we've got dozens of computers working on the problem right at this

moment.” The general rubbed his face with his hands. “I didn't get a chance to ask the Bull that. So many

questions I wanted to ask. Men, I don't think we have a prayer of stopping those men on the sub. I think

we're staring nuclear and germ warfare right in its awful face and there isn't a goddamned thing we can do

about it.”

“I gather,” a Marine officer said, “the Joint Chiefs don't know about this?”

“We don't know if they do or not,” Admiral Mullens said. “But we can't approach any of them for fear

one of them is involved.”

“One or more. And which ones?”

“That is yet another point to consider.”

“And we can't do to them what we're about to do to each other,” General Driskill said, as an aide, as if

on cue, wheeled in a cart with a machine on it.

No one had to ask what it was; all the men present held the highest security ratings in America. They had

all taken these tests before. The machine was the most highly advanced of the psychological stress

evaluators. PSE. The same type the Bull and Adams used to ferret out informers.

“Each of us will submit to a PSE test. Sergeant Mack is the best around.” General Driskill smiled as he

laid a pistol on the table, in front of him. “This won't take too long.”

A few seconds ticked past. An Air Force colonel tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking so

badly he finally gave up the effort. He looked into the hard eyes of the Marine general. “Save yourself the

trouble, General. I don't know where the sub is; I don't know who on the JCs—if anyone—is involved in

this operation; and I don't know anyone who does know.”

“You damned fool!” General Driskill snapped at him. “Don't you people realize—or care—you're

bringing the world to the brink of holocaust?”

“Oh, the hell with that!” the colonel said. “Let Russia and China fight it out. Let them destroy each other.

We'll pick up the pieces and be on top once more.”

“So that's it,” a man muttered.

The Air Force colonel smiled.

“I don't believe that's all of it,” General Crowe of the Air Force said. He pulled a pistol from his

waistband and pointed it at the colonel. “You traitorous son of a bitch. Which one of the Joint Chiefs is

it?”

The Air Force colonel was suddenly calm with the knowledge that he would never leave this room alive.

He was not going to give the men in the room the pleasure of seeing him squirm. His gaze touched each

man, then he lit his cigarette with steady hands. “I don't know. And that's being honest. I think it's an

aide, but I can't be sure. You can test me; I won't fight the machine.”

He was tested. He did not know the name of the man on the Joint Chiefs, and his hunch that it was a top

aide showed positive. He did not know the location of the sub, and had no further knowledge of it.

“Explain it all!” General Crowe snapped. “I've seen men tortured before, sonny.” He still held the .38 in

his right hand.

“General, I don't know much about the operation. That was deliberate on the part of the top man, or

William W. Johnstone - Ashes 1 - Out Of The Ashes

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